


A Lowest High

by oysterpearl (willowbilly)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, First Time, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutineer Era (The Terror), Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, and yet no erectile dysfunction, referenced lead poisoning, referenced scurvy, referenced starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25176538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/oysterpearl
Summary: “You want my gentleness, Mr. Goodsir?” Hickey asks.“Keep it,” says Goodsir, for even as addled and diminished as he is, he's no intention to beg, but—oh, Hickey is enjoying this turn in the conversation too much not to exploit it.Goodsir hadn't thought it would be like this.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	A Lowest High

“This has never happened to me before,” Goodsir says, mumbling this out without thought. Is he referring to his own blushing virginity? Or to someone like Hickey, doing something like this, to himself? He's not even sure. It was unwise to speak. Fear beats in his veins; blood beats in his cock. He might be sick.

“You want my gentleness, Mr. Goodsir?” Hickey asks.

“Keep it,” says Goodsir, for even as addled and diminished as he is, he's no intention to beg, but—oh, Hickey is enjoying this turn in the conversation too much not to exploit it.

“Shall I court you, after our lovemaking?” he presses, pressing in again, his rhythm excruciatingly deep and slow.

Goodsir's muscle spasms and cramps around him. The pain expels sweat from his skin and tears from his eyes. His heels dig in against the blankets, head flung back, his starving body too weak to successfully arch up under Hickey's deceptively whippy frame, yet his every sinew strains, his every nerve screams. Hickey's cock pushing into his rectum elicits a flexing of Goodsir's diaphragm, the exhalation of an irrepressible gasp, as though he is punched in the stomach with each stroke; Hickey draws this out into unbearable slowness but he is not being gentle. He's making a point, meaning to force Goodsir to recant and request leniency.

“We can pretend our next time's your first, your deflowering all over again,” Hickey waxes on, an elbow of his for a moment a dull stab of agony on a brittle rib of Goodsir's as he shifts his weight, the sour humidity of his breath infiltrating Goodsir's as he talks, “just as if you're a proper innocent.”

Goodsir keeps his head turned, and closes his eyes. Ignoring Hickey, ignoring the torn membranous tissues and the frailty of joints which are fittingly as if full of ground glass, there's a growing pleasure around which to focus himself. The shove and stretch of Hickey's prick feels more solid than the feeling body it breaches. Every stroke pummels the prostate gland, each flare of pain pushing the heat higher, stoking it toward too much. Goodsir rolls his head to the other side as he contends with the unfamiliar intensity, his fingers clawing into Hickey's back, ankles crossing behind Hickey's legs; he clasps Hickey to himself and grinds his hips upward, his own prick caught in the slippery press between them, Hickey's flesh enticingly smooth and wet, made more so with the viscous slickness from Goodsir's hard cock rubbing against him.

Hickey's sharp, insistent mouth opens hot against the side of his neck. There is the tease of teeth near his pulse. A bite, a kiss, Goodsir's skin nibbled and sucked in a way which will mark, and then as though Hickey will chew through Goodsir's spit-soaked beard to his throat and in that fashion immobilize him.

A little more friction, and Goodsir will come, and if he could only reach his finish, he would forget the pain, and he would forget that he is too low on reserves to afford burning through them with sustained arousal as he is—but Hickey pushes in and holds there, holds Goodsir down again until his hips still, too exhausted to keep moving, thwarted from that blissful escape.

The long silence as they wait, tense in their clinch, Hickey's prick filling out his hole and the creeping cold beyond the bedding making itself known, is terribly interminable. It's only when he lets his legs fall from around Hickey, when, quivering, he splays them wide, that Hickey restarts.

The pace is faster now, and Hickey breaks Goodsir's embrace to pin his wrists, then to grab him behind the knees, bending his legs up against his chest. Goodsir's breath comes even shorter in this position, the penetration deeper and more brutal, and his skin prickles with new shame to hear the light clapping of the other man's scrotum meeting his arse.

“We can do this over and over,” Hickey promises him, panting into his ear as if in praise for his pliancy. As if Goodsir could be persuaded yet. “All that you want. We can live on like this, on and on.”

He hadn't wanted his first sexual experience with another person to be with someone he loathed. He still wishes it were somehow otherwise. With a person who loved him. Had he been braver, perhaps, on prior occasions, his first time might have been in actuality a lovemaking, and not this act of contempt. But there is no choice left now.

And to think that it's so very possibly the first of last, at the last of life as Goodsir almost is. Hickey believes to own him, but the poisons are in Goodsir's medicine chest, waiting. There will be enough to numb all of this.

Hickey turns Goodsir's face to his and kisses him with extravagant sweetness, and although Goodsir's eyes remain shut, his ribs under pressure, he succumbs to the kiss, welcoming Hickey's treacherous tongue into his mouth as he had not any of Gibson—mightn't he rest. Goodsir doesn't bite, does not try to gnaw the tongue off at the root as he kisses back. For Hickey, he will become merely meat to be acted upon, and it is not Goodsir who shall be sorriest for it.


End file.
